


Midsummer's Eve

by The Rose Mistress (Semilune)



Series: Hear, Feel, Think [9]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Faerie Folklore, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Final Fantasy XIV, InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale, Midsummer Night's Dream - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fae, Bisexuality, Curse Breaking, Curses, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Faustian Bargain, Human/Monster Romance, Inspired by InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Magic, Male Slash, Monsters, Multi, Not a Crossover, Polyamory, Rituals, Romance, Sacrifice, Sexual Tension, Soul Selling, Spooky, Supernatural Illnesses, Undead, Witchcraft, Witches, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semilune/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress
Summary: ★ Final Fantasy XIV, Monster AU (18+). Chapter One = T.o.C.  Influenced by InuYasha, ACOTAR, and Shakespeare.  Come heed the tale of the Witch, the Wyrm, and the Wraith.✦ Chapter 5: "What Fools These Mortals Be."  “Ah.”  Something colder in the voice, then.  “You have been here before.”  A dusty rattle of air.  “You smell of the lich yard.”✧ ☽ ☄ ☾ ✧I know of a mountain where the wild magick blows,Where periwinkle glistens and the nodding violet grows,A summit cold and distant whence the sun at daybreak goes,Rich in tender secrets that a lonely monarch knows.The wildest hath not such a heart as he—!The dragon flies, and the magpie holds the chase;The dove pursues the griffin ...Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,And the course of true love never did run smooth—And you, in my respect, are all the world.So how can it be said I am alone,When all the world is there to look on me?Tongue, lose thy light.Moon, take thy flight.Thus do I die. Thus, thus, thus—!Now I am dead,Now I am fled,My soul is in the sky.❅ ☾ ✧ ☽ ❅
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: Hear, Feel, Think [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/862848
Comments: 31
Kudos: 59





	1. Table of Contents

✦ **Foreword:**

Magic, fey, and mysteries, inspired (as usual) by The Big One, [Astral Fire, Umbral Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599668/chapters/28699292). Or, what if Aymeric and Estinien were Monsters, and the Warrior of Light was a Regular Witch? Come heed the tale of the Witch, the Wyrm, and the Wraith, a Final Fantasy XIV story influenced in part by InuYasha, ACOTAR, and A Midsummer Night's Dream (Shakespeare). 

This was supposed to be a one-shot but of course it's become a whole small project.

Stanzas below drawn from/shuffled/inspired by Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.

❅

I know of a mountain where the wild magick blows,  
Where periwinkle glistens and the nodding violet grows,  
A summit cold and distant whence the sun at daybreak goes,  
Rich in tender secrets that a lonely monarch knows.

The wildest hath not such a heart as he—!  
The dragon flies, and the magpie holds the chase;  
The dove pursues the griffin ...

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,  
And the course of true love never did run smooth—  
And you, in my respect, are all the world.

So how can it be said I am alone,  
When all the world is there to look on me?

Tongue, lose thy light.  
Moon, take thy flight.

Thus do I die. Thus, thus, thus—!  
Now I am dead,  
Now I am fled,  
My soul is in the sky.

❅

* * *

✧ ☽ **Table of Contents** ☾ ✧

* * *

✧ **Midsummer's Eve** ✧

  1. **Foreword & Table of Contents**  
You are here!
  2. **Ill Met By Moonlight  
** She felt the cold thrum of his voice, well before she sensed the pull of his presence. All around her in the muggy summer air, levin crackled; the gravity he summoned whenever he appeared—  
Ruler of fey. Monster of monsters.
  3. **Painted Blind**  
“How can I trust you,” he recounted, moving closer. “A question as eternal as the fey.” His footsteps left behind dark patches of earth, thin green tendrils sprouting in his wake. “But I can imagine a way.”
  4. ****Though She Be But Little  
**** An upsurge of fear and hesitation—some animal reflex, once more, to resist. Seelie or unseelie, nemesis or friend, he was still an apex predator. "Trust me," he pressed. His fingers stretched a margin toward her. "I beg you." **  
**
  5. **What Fools These Mortals Be  
** “Ah.” Something colder in the voice, then. “You have been here before.” A dusty rattle of air. “You smell of the lich yard.”  
  
  




* * *

✧ ☽ ☄ ☾ ✧

* * *


	2. Ill Met By Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She felt the cold thrum of his voice, well before she sensed the pull of his presence. All around her in the muggy summer air, levin crackled; the gravity he summoned whenever he appeared— 
> 
> Ruler of fey. 
> 
> Monster of monsters.

* * *

✧ ☽ ☄ ☾ ✧

“Priestess.”

She _felt_ the cold thrum of his voice, well before she sensed the pull of his presence. _Otherworldly._ All around her in the muggy summer air, levin crackled; the gravity he summoned whenever he appeared— 

Ruler of fey.

_Monster of monsters._

She did not dare look away from her task—did not _dare_ find his stare. 

_One must never look at them there._

But since they had already spoken— “High lord,” she said.

Her voice was raspy, quiet—careful, held under her breath. She kept her eyes fixed on her mud-stained fingers, mottled with rain-dampened earth. _Grasp at the base, ease up the root, tap off the grit._

Beneath the scrape of her nails, black was trapped in crescents, and she was almost finished _._

_I only need seven. That will be enough._

Mist swelled around her, pondering, _electric_. It smelled of dropped autumn leaves, the first frosts of winter, the air before a storm. It was pregnant with static and came not from sky nor soil, nor dew trapped on tendrils or petals. 

No. 

The fog, the _haze,_ was something made from _him._

“You return to my wilderness,” he observed, less words, more a rumble in her marrow. 

A curl of air swirled to caress her; felt like a titanic exhalation. She could not control the urge to shiver. “So you see,” she said, squaring her shoulders, letting her hair curtain down in a veil.

Wry humor colored the back of that haunting, ethereal voice. 

“I see, little mouse,” he purred. “Come to nibble at my garden, yet again.”

She trembled. 

By instinct, her bones knew the peril—how foolish it was to _engage_. 

“I return as much as I take,” she said, keeping focused. “As per our accord.” Surely he was summoned by her freshest oblation—hard cheeses, comb honey, wine and dried meat and red orchard apples. 

But was it pleasing? Would it _sate him?_

What, after all, was _enough for a monster?_

The perfume of the fruits from the valley drifted over as he sighed. “Aye. Your offerings are—always sufficient.”

She took a stiff breath. “Then I beg you would allow me to harvest,” she bargained. “Your woodlands are rich and I—” She swallowed hard against the shock of emotion that threatened, tamping it firmly back down. _No._ It would not do to show more frailty _._ “I have a dire need to trespass yet.” 

It was not a lie.

 _One must never lie to them_. 

“Well do I know it,” came his quiet affirmation.

He presaged her objective since the first of their harrowing meetings. He, incorporeal, veiled all in shadows; she, crouched in barefaced obsecration to the growing things he kept. The mountain, _his mountain_ , must have been blessed, for the loam itself pulsed with magick—and so, therefore, did every wild plant.

 _Back then,_ he asked to glean her intent—and she was honest, and heartfelt. Perhaps he was moved, if immortal beasts could be, for, in that instant, they agreed upon a pact. She would show her solemn supplication; pay tribute to the keeper in gifts. He, in turn, would allow her to forage and scour. 

In the end, she was desperate; just one feeble, mortal witch—and he, a creature who could kill her with the flick of his wrist. He had no cause to approach her. Not again and _again_. Unless—

She took a dry breath. “Have my activities come to offend?”

Something that felt like a chuckle, then, carried on wingbeats of bluebirds and ravens. 

“I have followed your activities with interest,” he admitted. She felt something unseen moving in to press closer, to brush by the shell of her ear. “Interest,” he murmured, and she felt his unmistakable _breath_ —the shape of _lips_ , there, soft and sudden, “Bordering on fascination.”

Was that a wisp of hair that swept to tickle her neck? The softness of an eyelash, aflutter at her temple? 

She felt the cold heat of his attention and resisted the compulsion to _move, to search for his gaze._

 _Do not dare invite his—_ “Fascination?” The word escaped her, wonder in absence of insight. 

She closed her lips tight in its wake, as though that could erase it. 

_Speak not with the liege of the mountain—_

Breath, again, fanned the frantic pulse in her neck. “Fascination,” he purred. A chill wind combed through her hair, raking like talons. Her skin pebbled, shoulders to toes, and she shut her eyes tight.

“You toy with me,” she hissed, coming to her senses. “A mouser swatting at a rat.” Her fingers trembled—clenched around the precious bounty collected. Motes of soil sprinkled down. 

The chill hand scraped down her back. 

“No.” His hum of contention; a whorl that kissed her face. Those ephemeral lips parted at the hinge where her jaw met her throat. She almost felt _fangs_. “I would never wish to harm you.”

She opened her eyes to a blur of bald terror. _Impossible to believe._

He hummed, no doubt sensing her fear. _Beast of prey._ Again, that sensation of a _mouth there_ , plush and supple. “Do not be afraid.” A curl of shadow crept to her periphery; fingers of gloom given shape. 

As the umbra trickled in, threatening, leaching to stain her surroundings, she took a shrill breath. “What do you want with me?” Her eyes screwed shut again. “Why do you torment me?” Hot tears seeped from the edge of her lashes. She gasped against the reflex to _fight him_ , knowing it would be in vain. “The pact has been kept, my tributes all met—or was I witless quarry, simply tracked to be devoured?”

To her shock, the darkness rapidly scattered. 

Warmth billowed forth all around her, shocked and sudden—the thrill of transposition, frosty-hot and prickling. It felt like stepping toward a hearth in the freeze of midwinter. “Quarry?” The sensation of lips, the looming static was gone, replaced by the unmistakable impression of a shy, guarded presence.

“Am—” She hiccoughed. “Am I _not?”_

“No menace was intended,” he said quickly. “Nor torment, nor _devouring._ ” A sober pause. 

Her heart, this time, gave the hiccup. “How can I trust you?”

“My magick,” he explained. “It forbids me from falsehoods.”

She trembled.

_The fey cannot lie and are bound by their truths._

Fear ebbed in waves from her body, replaced, for some reason, by the urge to turn and face him. It was stronger than before, so robust it took real effort to _refrain_. She dug her sodden knees into the dirt and clenched her teeth, shoving the small bundle of roots reaped into her basket. 

_Just because they cannot lie does not mean you should believe them._

The doubt spilled from her lips. “What was your intention, then?”

Another beat of silence. “You fear me,” he noted, evading the question. “You think of me—poorly.”

_Should she not?_

He was a _lord of monsters,_ a beast beyond mortal comprehension. 

“What would you have me think of you?” she asked.

The question crackled between them. 

Then, a thin blink of lightning lit the canopy above. Thunder grumbled, low and gruffly, in the distance, and the aura that suffused the little grove warped and shuddered. His existence seemed, at once, to retreat. “Another time, little mystic,” he murmured abruptly. “For I am being irresistibly summoned.”

Her brow crinkled. _Let him go, let him go—_

But without thought, she was bending, warping like a magnet to _look._

There, in the silhouettes cast by the mighty promenade of the forest, stood a man wreathed in rippling shadows. Around his bare feet crept runners of periwinkle, powder-blue flowers, wet and glistening. Alabaster ankles peeked beneath layers of fine-embroidered robes, gilt-and-sable and glittering. Her greedy eyes tracked up a body more exquisite than a daydream, twelve times more _dreamlike_ , hidden by darkness though it was. And there, above the stretch of a flushed, misleadingly vulnerable throat—

There was the face of an angel _._

He was beyond the wildest reaches of a reverie, beyond the real or imagined. Strong jaw, gentle chin, dusky lips—cheekbones and long tapered ears swept beneath curls of dense ebon hair. Narrow eyes set like diamonds, framed with lashes of velvet rook feathers—brow so smooth, mien so fierce, he surpassed the finest king.

A catlike grin curled those full, blushing lips, as a stare the color of ice swallowed her in.

And, in a swirl of inky twilight, crow quills and petals like stardust, he was gone.

* * *

It was near the crush of midnight when the _other_ tended to wander—the one for whom she broke the rules already.

Then again, high fey were quite different from _dragons._

She was scarcely done arranging _his_ offering when she felt his miasma slam down beside her. 

“Stars,” she barked, reeling back into her skin. She spun on her heel to glare up at him, no fear for the demon who so loved to heckle and taunt her. “Foul hellhound. Could you make your entrance any _softer?_ ”

A gravelly bluster of a growl. “Nay.” 

His horns were gone, wide hoary wings already folded, vanished into wisps of thin smoke. As his glamour rippled, making him more like a silver-haired man, he swaggered over to the makeshift altar, bending low to sniff. 

The tracks of scales down his swarthy torso glimmered in the moonlight, flakes of reptilian pearl and ice alongside scarred, tanned skin. The front of him looked almost human like this; familiar, hips to chin—a _soft underbelly_ , she reckoned. Undulating layers of silvery ophidian lamella thickened along his flanks and dorsum. Stray curls and patterns of saurian stripes dipped to disappear beneath the waistband of dark trousers—a pair she had gifted in tribute last equinox. To her surprise, he kept them painstakingly tidy. 

As she watched him, he gave her a show—a huff, a snuffle—a husky, muffled snort. 

Then he flicked back his long, pale hair and paced to approach from another angle, fussy as a housecat.

“Oh, enough with the _playacting_ ,” she grumbled, shoving the bloodied basket from the butcher back into her hands. “I had it fileted _precisely how you like—_ and made sure to haggle for lamb this time, in lieu of goat or mutton—”

She could see his jaw tense as he glanced back, dark blue eyes glinting with evident pleasure. “And what wicked hunt do _you_ desire? On what game trail will you sic me with this _most vigilant bequest?”_ His long, glossy lashes reminded her of snowfall, the gleam of his fangs like a viper. _Wild animal, all the same._ “Tell me, sorceress,” he was saying. “For the solstice fast approaches, and I will be irresistibly detained.”

_Midsummer’s eve?_

She resisted the urge to blurt it aloud. The longest day of the season dawned in only a handbreadth of sunsets. What was the consequence—importance to _his_ people? There was much she did not understand. 

Her eyebrows tracked high on her forehead, another warning starting to blare. 

_Pry not into immortal affairs._

“Something simple,” she admitted, propping the basket on her hip. “Bits of eggshell filched from a fairy-tale nest.”

His nostrils flared. “What sort of _fairy-tale nest?_ ”

She braced herself. “That of a freshly hatched wyrmling.”

With a flourish, he stretched back up to a stand, fat raw filet on the dais left untouched. “Aeries are hallowed ground, foul witch _,_ ” he growled. “You would have me _desecrate the sacred?”_

“How can it be a desecration? Eggshells are compost at best—” Even, she wagered, _magical eggshells—_

He lunged in, predatory, close and intense. “I am no sire,” he spat, and she felt a spray of spittle mist her skin. She grimaced as he snarled. “The parents would maim me ere I reached the precipice.”

“Then take me with you,” she said resolutely. The lamb’s blood was drying on her fingers, tacky and crusted—she _had_ asked for it fresh. She used her dirtied hands to sweep back her tangled hair, the crook of her forearm to wipe her sweaty lip. “Let me speak directly to a sire or doyenne—”

He gave a low, rolling hiss, venomous, _menacing_. 

“They would _slaughter you,”_ he said, razor-sharp and simply.

She chewed on the inside of her lip. “Even if we met on common ground, away from an aery?” She was dogged, determined. “Our peoples parleyed as friends, in the past—in alliance, in allegiance—in _affection_.” She set her jaw. “It happened then and has been known to happen again.”

As expected, he pouted—pouted, because he was living _evidence._

She spent moon upon moon to find him, to lure him into these lands. Back then, she needed the talon of a dragon; a clipping taken from paw or from hand. She offered gifts to barter his faith—carefully assuaged him—coaxed and cajoled until they reached an understanding. She pruned the cruel claw from his littlest finger, but how long had it taken? How many soft, unspoken exchanges to win the reward of rapport? 

A season passed in which he kept _returning—_ almost impatient to eat from her hands. He agreed to odd errands, seeking scraps for her enchantments. And seldom, very seldom, did she make unreasonable demands. 

The scales that lined his lashes flashed, iridescent, as he frowned. He took a breath deep and bracing, inflating the broadness of his chest. “What you desire is forbidden,” he muttered. He folded his arms firmly, as though to lash himself down. “To bring such a thing direct to a _mortal_ —” He looked away from her, a mirage of horned antlers and wings flickering into view for an instant. “I cannot play courier. Not for this.”

She dug her heels into the packed ground. “I need a shell for my next incantation,” she said gravely. “A handful of powder—just enough to fit there.” She held out a palm and faced him, undaunted. “I must have it.”

He took one heavy breath, then another. Bits of flame sparked to life in the slits of his pupils, embers on a backdrop of ocean-blue pitch. The air between them was balmy, but when he sighed, loudly, _forcefully_ , steam plumed from his lips like a specter. “I will do it,” he groused, averting his glance. “But as for this morsel of flesh—” He stiffened; reached with one set of long bleached claws to snatch the offering. 

He squatted near the ground, some killer's instinct to perch in a crouch. Blood stained his fingers as he tested with his tongue—swallowed whatever remained of his statement. Cruel teeth sank into the lamb.

As she watched, he sheared free a bite. 

Her hand began to tremble, relief a cool surge in her veins. She watched the gruesome pact unfold with bleak satisfaction, even as she felt his unspoken question lance through her head. “But—?” 

A look, needle-keen, through the side of his eye. For a moment, the beast of few words merely chewed and studied her blandly. Then he finished his mouthful and glowered. “Never you mind,” he grunted, gobbling the snack. He licked the gore clean from his fingers and stared up at her through the veil of his lashes.

Her face twisted into a scowl at the denial—itched with familiar raw exasperation. But it was her decision to engage in this relationship, just as his feasting was proof that he agreed to the arrangement.

It would not do to prod and pry. 

Just as he gorged himself, she gulped down myriad questions. “When will you return?”

Something tensed behind his eyes, and his pupils glowed brighter. “Soon enough,” he said strangely. He bent back up to a stand. Odors of copper and ozone filled her nose as he summoned his magick. The air rippled around him and his wings took shape—reformed or simply come back into focus, she could never quite tell. Outward they stretched, huge sheets of star-white and silver, some amalgam of skin and scale and feather, fortified with sinews that arced down his back. “I will come when I come,” he declared. 

“How helpful,” she quipped.

He scoffed. Four twisted horns crowned his skull in a thorn-tipped halo, and he leapt into the air.

❅ ☾ ✧ ☽ ❅

* * *


	3. Painted Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How can I trust you,” he recounted, moving closer. “A question as eternal as the fey.” His footsteps left behind dark patches of earth, thin green tendrils sprouting in his wake. “But I can imagine a way.”

* * *

✧ ☽ ☄ ☾ ✧

Starlight gleamed to illumine the meadow.

It was a narrow, rolling dell; a pocket in the dale of the mountain. Aside from the trilling of crickets, the night beasts were quiet—the sounds of nature dimmed and dwindled. Something fierce was lurking.

Something eerie and savage.

Time passed in line with the throb of a heartbeat. Then, a clash of talons. Through the air thrummed the brittle sound, the coppery pulse of magick. There was deafening thunder—a crack, a rattle—a scalding burst of white. Then a roar, _bone-chilling_ , startled everything entirely to silence.

With a sickening _crunch_ , a stand of massive poplars was crushed into the loam.

Atop the ruined branches crouched a smallish silver wyvern. Blue-hot reams of static spilled in a froth from its mouth. A miasma of storm clouds roiled around it—billowing swirls of grey mist, cascading in a mantle, wreathing the tines of its horns. Snowflakes scattered from the shroud, melting where they touched the humid ground. The wyrm’s winged foreclaws tensed on the broken trunks, and pitch-dark eyes flashed to the floor of the forest.

To the blur of mortal perception, nothing appeared to be there. But indeed, as the dragon kept watch on the shadows, the dimness began to reshape. From inky silhouettes, a slinking _something_ escaped.

Pale eyes, blue and phantasmal, pierced to glitter like moon gleams.

A ghostly face surfaced from the gloom; features part wraith, part raptor. Like the stormclouds that shrouded the wyvern, tufts of dusk plumed around it, keeping the creature spectrally hidden. But beneath the whorls of unctuous miasma, a thick mane of glossy black feathers fluffed and bristled.

This new, quiet monster surged on all fours from the thicket, spreading wings. Wide quills, rook and raven, stretched and fluttered from the darkness—broad enough to cast a shadow that blotted out the starlight.

A low hiss stemmed from the wyrm. Maw split wide, levin sizzled from its jowls, sparking and crackling in bolts of blinding light. 

The beast like a griffin slunk against the ground, moving _dazzlingly fast._ Where it passed, heavy talons gouged the earth, raking thick gashes through wet moss and scrub. In its mammoth pawprints, wildflowers rushed to sprout, dew-flecked and glistening. The griffin’s sky-colored eyes twinkled like gemstones as it leapt toward its quarry.

But, if dragons could smirk, the silver wyvern was _undoubtedly_ _grinning_. 

Swift and serpentine, it slipped easily away—nimble, fleet-winged and fleet-footed. With speed enough to outstrip its larger opponent, it disappeared from the perimeter, back into the phantoms of the grove.

The other, unprovoked, remained in the meadow. Slowly, patiently _,_ it prowled—moved in a poised promenade, brute force well-balanced with grace. Plainly, it was waiting _._ With the suddenness of thunder, an ancient voice echoed in the air. 

_Still you shirk the benediction,_ bellowed the timbre, cold and thrumming.

A glint of silver. The wyvern glided back into sight. Fire blazed in the slits of its eyes as it slithered, swift as lightning. The inky mist around the griffin dissolved for an instant, and the dragon took a pass. Shrew and tomcat, asp snapping at the spurs of a falcon—the wyrm struck, adder-fast.

In a split second, the wraith reared back. Its hindlimbs dug into the ground, dense black talons unsheathed to hook down. Strong wings flapped for balance, whirling fresh-bloomed petals in a mist. It reached for the wyvern with an avian forepaw, long-clawed fingers outstretched like the toes of a kestrel.

The wyrm scrambled into the sky. Its forelimbs spread, unfurling silvery wings—catching the air like a canvas. Strained against the wind, gilded by stars, scales and veins and sinews shimmered as it _sailed_. It opened its mouth to snarl, fangs gleaming. “Save your lectures,” hissed the dragon.

Swathed completely back in its shadows, the monster down below watched the flier blandly. Naught of the griffin was visible, now—wings folded, all limbs tucked beneath the ink of the ghastly miasma. Only its gaze, those stark diamond eyes, peered out of the roiling gloom. _Come down,_ echoed the swell of that incorporeal voice, colored now with a note of unspeakable ennui. _Allow me to assist you._

The wyrm sailed overhead in a lazy semilune crescent. “How can the aether be mine if it is _you who are always assisting?”_

 _The aether belongs to itself,_ contended the other. The shade around it thickened, going darker. In a radius spreading out on the ground, slow and creeping, green things started to flourish—tiny bluebells blooming in a gradient. _But the benediction derives from the greenwood,_ it rumbled. _My succor is needed to command it._

With a huff, the wyvern rolled in the air; plummeted in landing. Its claws plunged into the ground. Mud and moss and fallen foliage scattered. The dragon panted, slavering with static, pearl-and-silver body splattered with petals and mire. Slowly, it slunk toward the other.

The griffin’s body tensed. Beneath its mantle of shadows, there was a sense of something _unwinding_. 

The wraith reached out and the wyvern hissed, turning over in surrender. Pinned, underbelly exposed, one heavy raptor forepaw collared its serpentine throat. Where pebbly black birdskin pressed against smooth silver, magick started to pulse—a gentle blue seemed to glow.

Aether uncoiled in waves, spilling into the wyvern, rippling the air like a mirage. Sparks dripped like spittle from the maw of the willing captive, electric, sizzling in the grass. White narcissus rushed to blossom where the residue fell.

The griffin rumbled in warning. _Calm yourself._

Incensed, sibilant insistence. _“I am calm.”_

A few more moments of magick, paw to neck. Then the glow and throbbing faded.

The air around the wyrm shimmered. In its place, a man shifted into existence—still scaled and horned and antlered, but wingless; naked and supine on the ground. The talons of the wraith were long enough to curl around his body. 

A shite-eating grin curled across the wyvern’s lips as his captor gave a heavy, audible sigh. Hot breath rushed to thrust back the silver hair around the wyrm’s self-satisfied face. 

_One moment._

The darkness around the griffin dispersed. The monster flexed and refolded its wings; inky plumage fluttered along its flanks and haunches. A long tail lashed the ground, tufted in feathers, and then the oily umbra returned. Raven plumules and eiderdown scattered as the wraith melted completely into shadows.

Where the sable feathers fell, dissolving into dirt, snowbells pushed up to bud. From the churning black mist stepped a beautiful man—the fey lord. He was shaking his head. “Is this an invitation?”

“Of sorts.” The recumbent wyrm-man smirked, lazily stretched; opened his scale-gilt arms in summons. His long pale hair splayed in a halo on the freshly growing plants. “But save the rest of your _succor_ for the solstice.”

The last of the shadows lapped around the other, still standing. Gloom swirled in a delicate fog, eddying around him like the mesh of a garment. He bent to kneel beside the other with a velvety chuckle, enfolding him in the curve of one alabaster arm. “I have no wicked intentions.”

“So you say,” hummed the wyvern, meeting the wraith with solemn, dark eyes. 

Nervous static energy swelled to entwine with the shadows, downy curls of darkness engulfed in jittery stormclouds. Blinks of lightning and shade intermingled. Both creatures laced themselves together on the carpet of foliage and flowers, and the fey lord raked a hand through his companion’s glinting hair. 

“I am perfectly capable of patience,” he murmured. With a lazy smirk, he leaned to press their lips together. 

The hellhound smiled and arced into the contact. Sharp fangs snagged on lush, exquisite lips as though seeking to devour. “To patience,” purred the wyrm, savoring the mouth of his beautiful lover.

The wraith hooked heavy-knuckled thumbs at narrow, silver-scaled hips. “To patience,” he whispered. And slowly, gently, sweetly shaded by the curl of shrubs and flora, they drank deeply—fey communion chaliced, lips to lips.

* * *

In the morning, the witch was poised at the mortar and pestle. The harvest from the woodland was dried, crushed and blended with the rest. Now all she needed was the shell from the nest, and—

A rush of cool air on the back of her neck. A dulcet voice, low and sultry. 

“How goes your invocation, enchantress?”

Her spine felt like ice. 

_King of monsters_. 

“How—?” Her heart leapt to her throat. 

She never invited him—never welcomed him over the threshold—

The phantom of lips at her earlobe, feather-soft. “The door was cracked,” he rumbled, somehow, seemingly, knowing her mind. The slightest touch of fingers, warm and invisible, combed back the hair at her nape.

A shiver made her tremor. 

“So you saw yourself in without knocking.” Her voice was a hissing whisper. “How impolite.”

His lips smiled against her. Then came his breathless chuckle, felt more than heard. 

“One moment.”

The air left the room as though sucked out. Softly, behind her, the door clicked shut. He was gone, and all she could hear was her heartbeat, hammering at her ears. Then, clearly and gently, a series of raps.

She blinked down at her desk—dried leaves and flowers, vials of tinctures and extracts—

_The lord of the mountain, waiting at the entrance._

After a bitter, shallow breath, she scowled and stormed over. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground as she threw the door open—saw his pale, bare feet. Tiny hyacinths peeked between his toes. 

“What do you want?” she asked.

He answered at once, from somewhere above. “I owe you my rejoinder.” Fragrance wafted toward her from where the fey stood. Peat and moss, upturned soil; the smell of petals and petrichor. In the back of her mind, she heard the vaguest echo of a voice—her own voice, presented by _him_. 

_What would you have me think of you?_

Her heart stuttered, skipping three beats. “Oh.” She dipped her chin. “I remember.” 

“Do you still wish to know?”

She certainly did. “Yes.” 

“Will you look at me again—while I offer an answer?”

His voice was tantalizing. The blood went still in her veins, all but frozen. Again, she felt that desperate urge to react—in this case, _listen and witness._ “Are—” She took a hard breath. “Are you controlling my thoughts?”

Another shocked, soundless sensation of laughter. “Not at all,” he assured her.

_Their nature binds them not to lie._

Another nervous stumble of her heart. “You frighten me,” she admitted, for not the first time.

“Do not be afraid,” he maintained.

She took a lungful through her nose. 

Slowly, she tilted her chin; lifted her eyes to regard him. 

Beauty, devastating. So lovely, _breathtaking—_ mesmerizing as the simmer of a sunset—

But also, so somber. 

Her knees were suddenly water, all air gone from her chest. Darkness swirled to take the edge of her vision. When she blinked back to life, a pair of arms stronger than any earthly being were upon her, gently holding her up. “Priestess,” he whispered. She was leaned back against him—felt the smooth vibration of his murmur through his frame. “Have you—need of my assistance?”

Her head spun. 

She flinched away to press against the wall—to stare at him like a lost lamb. “No.”

His eyes were the color of comets and diamonds, and suddenly tired and weary; somehow, for the life of her, _sad_. “What must I say to make you trust me?” He took a step forward, scattering miniature indigo blossoms.

She was dizzy. “How?” Her face crinkled. “How can I _trust you?”_

His expression was melancholy. 

“How can I trust you,” he recounted, moving closer. “A question as eternal as the fey.” His footsteps left behind dark patches of earth, thin green tendrils sprouting in his wake. “But I can imagine a way.” A warm breeze followed in his path—daffodils and dewdrops, rain on a fresh, warming day— 

“How,” she echoed, wanting, acutely, to listen.

In motions kept slow, he closed the distance. 

Like a breath or a whisper, the pad of his thumb brushed her cheek. 

“Perhaps—” His glittering eyes roved her face. “Perhaps a new beginning.”

❅ ☾ ✧ ☽ ❅

* * *


	4. Though She Be But Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An upsurge of fear and hesitation—some animal reflex, once more, to resist. 
> 
> Seelie or unseelie, nemesis or friend, he was still an apex predator.
> 
> “Trust me,” he pressed. His fingers stretched a margin toward her. “I beg you.” 

* * *

✧ ☽ ☄ ☾ ✧

The fey lord cradled the earthenware almost meekly in his hand.

Across the half-cleared table, she looked up from her spellbook—furrowed her brow. The witch watched her otherworldly houseguest tip the steaming teacup to his mouth; take one slow and gingerly sip. 

She choked back a snort. 

One of his black eyebrows twitched up. Ice-blue eyes rose to survey her and twinkled.

A gentle grin curved his lips. “Do you laugh at me, little magus?” The shadow he cast across the floor seemed to stretch, glittering subtly, pitch and obsidian. Eerie, the way the darkness warped around him. But his voice was warm, his words without threat. He seemed, perhaps, on the verge of laughing too.

“Yes,” she admitted. She flipped the page in her grimoire but kept her eyes on him; shook her head. Hysteria bubbled through her chest and she tamped it back down. Never safe to feel too _familiar; not with one of them._ “You hold the cup like it might bite you.”

His eyes flicked down, veiled behind long lashes. He studied the mug, turning it in his hand. “’Tis a fragile vessel,” he declared. “The glamour I wear does little to suppress my—” He shifted in his seat. “Strength.”

She snorted again; felt a flutter of dread in her stomach. She forced herself to focus on the tome. “Is your self-control so lacking?”

“Nay,” he said, perhaps too quickly. The shadows on the floor rippled like velvet, facets of blackness gleaming. She heard the soft hollow scrape of the teacup being set down. “I pride myself on restraint.”

She mouthed a word of the spell to herself as she penned it in the margin; glanced back up to meet his eyes. He was watching her with unhidden interest, arms folded primly on the table. “Notes for the enchantment?” he asked.

Her heart thumped, but she nodded; scrawled something else.

How many times had he asked her, inquired after her task? In the forest, he was naught but a disembodied voice—looming and chilly, but unendingly _curious._ Now, corporeal before her, he shifted his weight again, drawing her attention. “I might be willing to aid you,” he said, sudden.

She met his eyes again and faltered. Beautiful, blue, _inhuman_. 

“Aid me?”

_No one can aid in my—_

His voice was almost a purr. “The spinning of magick is, in fact, my finest asset.”

She almost laughed again. That a creature more alluring than an angel should boast of something _finer—_

“No more bargains,” she said gruffly, closing her spellbook—an effort to shield it from his meddling.

His eyebrows rose up high. “I made no mention of a contract,” he said, a velvet rumble.

“Not yet,” she argued, tucking the grimoire in her lap. She stared at him archly. “But pacts are your _modus operandi,_ are they not? The means by which your people—” She shivered.

_Make a game of their prey._

The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker. “You leave something unspoken.” His smooth, noble brow gently tensed. He took a shallow breath; leaned closer to the table. “Will you not reveal to me your troubles?”

Her fingers clenched around the spine of her spellbook. _My troubles by what measure?_

Her voice cracked. “You said you see me not as quarry for hunting,” she muttered. “You swore you spoke the truth—the nature of the fey, which I knew might forbid you from lying. But—”

Pressure in her ribs. She closed her eyes against it; took a bracing breath.

A flutter like the wingbeat of a bluebird near her cheek. His soft voice, more in her ear than in the air around them. “But?”

Her eyes blinked open. 

“You have followed me with interest,” she said weakly. “Interest, you told me, _bordering on fascination._ ”

“Aye.” A hum above a whisper.

She swallowed hard. 

“You promised me an answer when you let yourself in,” she said, breathless. “So, tell me. Why would a creature like you— _pay attention?”_ Her eyes roved his face, so attractive and _immaculate._ “Why would a fey lord—”

The look in his eyes made her lose the rest of her question.

In a slow, controlled gesture, he reached across the table—almost too slowly, as though he feared to move too fast. His palm was upturned. “Will you—” He, of all things, _stammered._ “Will you give me your hand?”

Her fingers twitched around the grimoire. She faltered. “Why?”

Something fathomless in the depths of his stare. “I wish to show you.”

For several heartbeats, she was still. Then, she sat up straighter—then, she lifted a trembling hand. “Promise not to hex me?”

He laughed, breathy and almost without sound. “I avow—I will not _hex you.”_

They reached for each other, very timid, and time seemed to stop.

Their fingertips brushed together. The air around her cooled and thinned. Fingers interlaced. His skin was smooth and warm, slightly callused—his hand so much _larger_. He swept her palm beneath the grip of his knuckles, and the smell of fallen petals cloyed her senses. Like the drawing of a shade, the edges of her vision pleasantly darkened. Around them, the atmosphere glittered, some soft illusion of twilight.

She took a breath. Waited.

Nothing else happened.

He hummed quietly to himself, cradling her palm in his fingers. Curls of short black hair fell to veil his forehead like feathers. “Alas,” he muttered, shadows cast on his eyes. He smoothed a thumb across her knuckles.

She blinked several times—stared at the joining of their hands. “Alas?”

His lips bent into a grin. “You shield yourself well, little witch,” he said, with a great deal of fondness and affection. He released her fingers. “Perhaps the next time.”

She scowled, slipping her hand back into her lap. Her skin still tingled with the echo of his touch. “Can you not tell me in words?”

Again, he stared at her in surprise, lips parted in a gentle laugh. “To show you would be better,” he said. A cosmos twinkled in his eyes. “But to show you, I must first earn your confidence.”

“You fey and your riddles,” she grumbled, glaring into his damnably glittering stare.

He only smiled wider, leaning forward in his chair. 

A wisp of shadow rose to curl against her hair.

* * *

The fey lord loomed over her shoulder as she cracked open the bulb of garlic, sifting out a few choice cloves. She used a heavy spoon to crush them, peeling loose the brittle skins, picking them apart—

“You are fond of this allium root,” he observed, as she minced them to add to the pan.

“That I am,” she said. 

To her relief and surprise, easy laughter followed the words. Her heart still trilled with nervous energy, but after one more morning in his presence—well. The novelty, the _strangeness_ might never wear off, but at least the terror was waning.

Sharp and mouthwatering, the odor of the garlic blended with the browning of onions, roasting mutton and potatoes. The rustic flavors contrasted starkly with the wild, boreal fragrance of _him._ “And is this meal for your—” He seemed to parse his words, to choose them very judiciously. “Your loved ones?”

Her chest ached against her breath. “Yes.” She blinked quickly.

The weight shifted behind her. “Allow me to assist.”

Her face tensed. She glanced at him through the corner of her eye. Beautiful fey liege, leaving his _footprints of flowers_ , beneath the very _eaves of her pantry_. Bizarre and eternal and _profoundly out of place._

“Can you—” She cleared her throat. “Is it _safe_ for you to help me?”

He raised his fine, arched brows in earnest wonder. “Should it not be?”

Her eyebrows rose in answer, forehead creased. “You are a lord of immortals—the _specter on the mount,_ ” she amended. Perhaps he knew his moniker from the legends. “Are mortals not forbidden from the foodstuffs of the faeries?”

His mouth opened in one of his gasping, soundless laughs, the smile rendering him impossibly handsome. “Do they still spin those old tales?” His eyes twinkled down at her like icy blue stars. “No indeed. Any meal I might conjure—through ancient means or otherwise—is perfectly safe for your consumption.”

She stared at him a moment longer. “What of the stories of children, spirited away? What of the legends of changelings and tithes—parables of virgins being kidnapped for—”

_Pleasure._

She broke off the thought.

He seemed torn between a grimace and disbelieving grin. 

“I begin to see more clearly,” he murmured. “Why you persist in _mistrusting.”_

She was becoming too engrossed in this conversation. “Are those all— _make-believe?”_

“Not entirely,” he permitted, searching her intently. “But what of our courts and alignments? With such hungry, vested intake of these fables, surely you swallowed some narrative of _them._ ”

“Yes.” She tried to check herself from further captivation. She was failing. “Courts of fey for every season—and other elements besides.” She stared up at him with rapt attention. “From which do you hail?”

His lips spread into a magnificent, rueful grin. “Name the one you suspect.”

Her heart fluttered. 

“Seelie,” she guessed, for he was, evidently, _kind-hearted._

“Aye.” His eyes glittered with indulgence. “And what of my season—my light?”

 _My light._ “What do you mean?”

His head cocked slightly, a reminder that he was also something feral. “Magick of stars or of darkness,” he clarified. “Arcana of—” He paused. “How might a mortal put it? Fire and ice?”

 _Oh._ That was simple. 

“Ice,” she said readily, forgetting the garlic.

His smile became more dire. “Are you certain?”

She frowned. “Fire?”

He laughed. “Perhaps my season might come as some assistance. Wager a guess?”

Now, he was certainly toying _—_ impish, these long-lived immortals _._ She scoffed but played along. From the smell of fallen leaves, the cool mists that glutted her senses whenever he appeared, perhaps—

“Autumn?”

His smile widened. “Nay.” 

She frowned. Autumn was her very best guess, but—if not _that—_ she envisioned wisps of shadow. Darkness, he trailed; the gloom in which he was so often shrouded. “Night?”

Something grim and quiet in his eyes.

“ _Nay,_ then,” she said on his behalf. She rested the knife on the counter and folded her arms. “Winter?”

His face was smooth and tranquil. “Would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes,” she said, sullen. “Since there is apparently so little I _truly understand.”_

He pressed his lips together in thought and decision, their plushness thinning for an instant. “Allow me to show you,” he presented again. Determined, he offered one shapely, marvelous hand.

An upsurge of fear and hesitation—some animal reflex, once more, to _resist_. 

Seelie or unseelie, nemesis or friend, he was still an _apex predator._

“Trust me,” he pressed. His fingers stretched a margin toward her. “I beg you.” 

Her eyes flicked back up to find his; heavenly blue like the clearest dawning sky. There was an unbearable glow in his expression—sun gleaming through a crust of hoarfrost, lamplight flickering in a window—

She took his hand.

A cool breeze caressed her, and she gasped.

Icy air and darkness, frost upon the ground. Soft rain, a pit-patter, melting snowfall all around. The timid graze of sunlight, crisp and golden as a crown. Warmth on the tail end of winter, coaxing fresh life to be found—

Every hair on her body stood on end.

Her vision swam back into focus, finding eyes like azure diamonds. “Spring,” she breathed. There was wetness on her face—pooled at the fringe of her jawline. Life, and death, and—it spread on the tip of her tongue like dark honey, his arcana. His gravity was thrilling, and her words were far too fragile.

_Something—something else—_

His thumb brushed the path of a tear on her cheek. 

“Endings and beginnings,” he said gently. “Daybreak and dusk.”

She closed her eyes against the weight of his stare. “Ice _and_ fire, then,” she assessed.

A quiet hum. 

_Yes._

* * *

The roast was finished and dressed; his faerie wine tucked alongside it in the pack across her chest.

She began down the road from her doorstep and felt him following after.

Uncertain, she turned. “You—” She cleared her throat. “You might do best to stay behind.”

He rocked back a step, nodding gravely. White and purple crocuses peeked from the earth beneath his feet. As she watched him, he took an almost tentative breath. “Next time, mayhap.”

A sense of awe flooded her heart, her brows knit. 

“Mayhap,” she allowed.

To her shock again, he bowed—met her stunned stare through his long, lowered lashes. 

“Permit me to visit again?”

She blinked. “If that is what you wish.”

“Indeed,” he said, stretching back to a stand. There was something tender in his face. “I do wish it.”

She chewed on her lip; gripped the strap of her knapsack. “You know where to find me.”

The corners of his eyes scrunched so sweetly when he smiled. “Then I shall find you,” he said softly. “Or, should my woodlands avail you—” Did his throat bob as he swallowed? “Perhaps it is I you shall find.”

Cotton in her mouth. The strangest pressure in her chest. “I—never asked for your name.”

Was it her imagination, or had something in his gaze thawed and melted?

“Next time,” he promised.

And, in a swirl of mist and petals, he was gone.

❅ ☾ ✧ ☽ ❅

* * *


	5. What Fools These Mortals Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah.” Something colder in the voice, then. “You have been here before.” A dusty rattle of air. “You smell of the lich yard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: you know, it might be fun to write some monster smut without plot  
> also me: writes zero smut and roughly ten thousand words of spooky plot
> 
> Warning for gentle descriptions of wasting illness.

* * *

✧ ☽ ☄ ☾ ✧

The fragrance of browned meat and onions flooded the room. 

“Heavens,” rasped one of her dear ones, awakening. His joints creaked as he stretched. “That smells divine.” His twin yet fitfully slept, curled on her flank at the far end of the mattress, white hair damp with sweat. 

The cook laughed gently as she portioned out servings, dish to plate. “I blessed this mutton twice,” she admitted. As he gave her a bitter, croaking chuckle, she carefully carried the meal to the bedside; took a seat at the edge. Her nervous eyes flicked from slumbering sister, back to brother again. “And added more garlic.” 

The recipient laughed weakly; accepted his helping with frail, trembling hands. “No harm in trying.”

“No harm,” she agreed. 

But no _healing_ , either. 

Her mouth twitched, tense, as she watched him start to eat. Since making the bargain with the bishop, the twins were no worse, but—no better, either. The scourge yet lingered, and no amount of magick could erase it. 

The witch wrung her hands in her apron, chest tight with the _inevitable;_ the lonely path that lay ahead. 

At first, in her arrogance, she thought she might break it herself—to dispel the affliction they shared _._ But day after day and spell after spell, the three of them grew even gaunter. Night after night, she marked the purple circles near their eyes, the hollowing cheeks, the way their ribs and hipbones started pinching, week by damning week. 

“Why is it happening to all of us?” the twin sister asked, more a rhetorical question.

But that got the brother to thinking— _what had they done?_

And the answer had been simple, though the cure decidedly less so.

“The journey to the Athenaeum,” he reckoned, paging through his journal very dully. He traced the entry with his finger; studied a sketch in the margin—groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew the passage through the churchyard was too easy. We must have been stricken by the warden of the necropolis—”

“Necropolis?” His sister slammed fists on the table and stood in a huff, long white hair mussed around her face. “I remember the cathedral, but you never mentioned a—” There was wrath in her sapphire eyes. “Necropolis as in _boneyard?”_

The brother visibly shivered. “Well, yes,” he muttered, slouching in his chair, as though he would rather not discuss it. He shivered again. “A _burial ground._ Why else would there have been catacombs—?”

Between the bickering of the twins, they determined that whatever lurked in the catacombs had cursed them—seemingly with _death itself._ Unfortunately, death was preordained; something nothing mortal could escape. Therefore, curses pertaining to death, as the brother unhelpfully explained, were far harder to deflect. “We could speak with whom-or-whatever threw the scourge,” he suggested, thumbing through his grimoire, strangely calm in light of the fact that they were, in all likelihood, dying.

“We find the warden and speak with it, then,” the witch decided, crossing her arms. “I, for one, refuse to shrivel to a carcass with a blight I never asked for.”

“Well,” drawled the brother. “Blights are rarely _asked for._ And we did trespass upon _ancient,_ _sacred lands—”_

It was true. A mistake had been made. 

But was the penance for error truly _expiration?_

Only back in those lands could an answer be uncovered. Together, they conjured a plan. Return to the boneyard; seek the warden and beg for benevolence. Alas, the legends of the _bishop_ , as they called it, were _notoriously unpleasant_ —told of a monster fully wicked and heartless, that tortured for the purpose of _delight._

The witch and the siblings tarried overlong, afraid that death awaited them regardless—and then the sister fell ill, above the plague that ailed them. Crouched above the other as she shivered, hot with fevers, the witch was seized with _fury_ —decided to go on her own. “This is wrong,” she hissed. “This was _not supposed to happen.”_

“Take me with you,” begged the brother, something savage in his sapphire eyes. “It was I that doomed us—my lack of foresight.” His voice cracked. “My _hubris_. Let the burden be mine along with the conscience.”

He had nothing to counter the argument. “Your sister needs you to _stay.”_

Without further palaver, she packed her bag and left.

Long or short as she lived, she would never forget that forlorn journey—the way she ached as she meandered through the plains. Her body was starving, her limbs growing thinner by the day. It was likely, she reasoned in the lowlands, that she would perish all the same. 

But at least she could rest in peace knowing she searched for the remedy.

Behind her stretched the overgrown path to the valley, desolate and abandoned. The churchyard swelled to greet her; the belfry of the cathedral. And stretching up in the pitch of the sky, overlooking the necropolis, was the _steeple._

It was the middle of the night, but somehow, when she entered, the chamber was filled with rays of golden light. Curtains fluttered in an intangible breeze—magick, no doubt, aping at wind and brightness. 

“Welcome, my child.” A low, resonant voice ringing _down_ , very gracious and melodic. “What brings you to my spire?”

She kept her stare trained on her dusty boots. Still, she could see tall windows to the sides; gargantuan and arched, inlaid with painted windows. From white marble floors to dizzying vaulted ceiling, everything was cast in shades of amber, mimicking warm, summery twilight. _Eerie._

The witch shivered coarsely; resisted the urge to _look up_. 

“A respectful request.” Her whisper bounced wall to wall, echoing on stones and stained glass.

“Come inside, then,” beckoned the voice, very pleasant. “Let me look upon you.”

She moved without hurry. Though the soles of her shoes were well worn, the heels scuffed and blunted, her footsteps rang loudly, even passing over crimson runners of carpet. The keeper of the steeple—the _bishop_ —lurked somewhere overhead. She could _feel_ the burn of his eyes as he watched her.

“Ah.” Something colder in the voice, then. “You have been here before.” A dusty rattle of air. “You smell of the lich yard.”

“We sought passage to the Athenaeum,” she offered, more bravely than she felt. “We are scholars—”

“Academics,” scoffed the monster, closer this time. “More like selfish _rats._ ”

Cold, ghostly fingers raked down her spine. She gulped a thin breath; felt her eyes bulge at the floor. “We wished to study,” she whispered, dry. “To improve ourselves. Your lands—if we had realized—”

“Your kind _never realize,”_ the bishop said darkly. “Never stop to consider their _actions._ Only grasp and _cling_ , swarm and _breed_ , overrunning the paddock like _locusts.”_ Something heavy thumped down behind her.

It was not going well.

“Let me offer you a bargain,” she said, gasping. “Something to take—in exchange for the lives of my friends.”

A pause, almost thoughtful. _Considering._ “Elaborate.”

“Three of us passed through your boneyard,” she croaked, the words coming out in a rush. “I want to save them—the others—to restore their good health and _longevity_ , in any way that I can.”

There was another, longer pause. 

“Your lifetimes are mine for the draining already,” murmured the bishop—somehow plainly _entertained_. Another rattle behind her, like the shudder of a laugh. “What more can you possibly propose?”

“Our lives were stolen,” she reflected. “We succumb to you under duress.” In all her studies of magick, she knew there was a difference—something far more potent in agreement, permission, _acquiescence_. “If—if I offered you my soul,” she said, well aware of what she suggested, “In return for their salvation—”

The creature hissed with glee. “Ah,” it thrummed, the tip of a claw caressing her neck. “I see. You understand the arcane laws.”

She swallowed hard. “I do. And I would give up anything— _anything_ to restore my companions.”

In the stretch of deafening quiet that followed, her heart throbbed fast against her breastbone.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a long, bony hand—fingers curled and skeletal. In the cage of that spiderlike grip was a pristine roll of parchment. “Take this spell,” it commanded. “Follow it well. Offer up your spirit, little mystic,” it purred, a curl of frost against her ear. “And I will allay them, for the _willing price.”_

As soon as she accepted the scroll, the strength in her body increased. She could almost _feel_ the withering cease. Without thinking, she turned to face her captor—a gnarled cadaver of bony, mismatched pieces, wreathed in tattered cobwebs of sheets. Empty sockets gazed back at her from within a bleached, broken skull. “You belong to me now,” it crooned, blue flames blazing to life in place of eyes.

_Mine for perpetuity._

The ill-fated sibyl shook out of her reverie, blinking back to the present.

“You were thinking about it again,” said the brother, fork paused above his mutton.

“I was,” she readily admitted, clutching the faerie wine tight to her chest. When had she removed it from the knapsack? The bottle, whatever it was made of, seemed to give off a faint warmth, like an ember flickered within.

Behind them, the sister coughed and stirred. Weakly, she rolled her head to face them, blinking glassy, bloodshot eyes. “I smell garlic,” she rasped, her voice incredibly hoarse. She squinted. “What are you holding?”

“Wine,” said the witch, glancing down at it. “It—was a gift.”

Two pairs of hollow sapphire eyes lifted to find her—to glance nervously at each other. The brother cleared his throat. “From what sort of giver, exactly?”

The sorceress took a shallow breath. “We shall see.”

* * *

Shards of crystal scattered through the throne room.

An earsplitting roar filled the chamber, followed by the echo of a long and heavy sigh. The latter came from the raven-haired fey lord, trailing leaden footprints of topsoil and clover. He gave a wide berth to one end of the hall. 

There, a thick haze of stormclouds was sparking and _churning_ , spewing ice.

“Try to control yourself,” the beautiful fey liege said darkly, flicking a tired hand. The dashed glass and gemstone lifted into the air, floating as though weightless. With another flick, the pieces swirled back together, fitting into the plane of a murky, ornate mirror. “Or must I restrain you again?”

The answering snarl was vicious, words spoken in an archaic, primordial growl. 

The wyrm. “Why did you not _tell me?”_

“I could ask you the same,” said the wraith, taking slow steps up the dais. Vines of ivy crept behind him, climbing up one leg of the old oaken chair. He sank into place with a weary groan; cast a dull stare to the creature crouched in smoky shadows. “I was unaware that the two of you entertained a liaison.”

“’Tis a friendship, _not a liaison,"_ the growling voice unconvincingly insisted.

“Merely a friendship,” the other exhaled. “Of which you are, quite clearly, ashamed.”

There was a heavy tick of silence, full of hidden implications. Then, after a string of sluggish heartbeats, the unseen creature loosed a loud and plaintive howl. “Will she _die?”_

The man on the throne looked incredibly tired. “If she does his bidding—carries through with the rite—” He scrubbed a thumb and forefinger across his jaded brow. “Her life will be stripped and made forfeit.”

There was a rumble much like thunder. Arcs of white-hot levin split and crackled through the air, originating from the smog of stormy snow clouds. Then a blur of silver scrambled forth, rushing toward the platform—a wyvern trailing lightning, wings unfurled, body tense and coiled as a serpent. 

Ropes of inky blackness lashed from the dais to twine around him, a collar of pitch winding shut at his neck. 

Cowed, the wyrm crashed down. 

“Be calm,” commanded the wraith, black mist tethered to his fingers. “Do not make me call you by name.”

The wyrm trembled violently on the floor. Beneath his folded wings, his chest heaved, and at the front of his maw, a forked tongue wrathfully flickered. Steam billowed up from his nostrils. The odor of copper and brimstone choked the room. “I could do the same,” he spat, a bitter susurration. His reptilian eyes were like pits full of shadows, midnight blue, slitted with fiery amber. His wild gaze rolled to rove across the figure on the throne. “With a mouthful of demands, I could _compel you to save her—”_

The high lord slouched even lower. “Not before the solstice,” he sighed. “Not against _him._ ” His lovely face was drawn. Resigned. “Our magick first belongs to the mountain.” He smiled stiffly. “Yours and mine alike.”

The air around the wyvern warped and glittered. Wings and spines and horns like antlers vanished. In their place sprawled that rugged, well-made glamour of a man, silver hair in a pile of tangles. He turned unfocused eyes to search the towering ceiling, still shackled by his partner’s aetherical chains. “He would have her join the undead,” he growled. “And I, in my madness, agreed to partake in her _contract.”_

“Aye,” murmured the lord. “You and your _madness.”_ He exhaled yet again. “You needs must deliver what you promised.”

The wyvern’s chest rose and fell very quickly. He took a rough breath. “And deliver, I shall.”

Static crackled in the air. The wraith looked at his captive more closely. “What are you scheming?”

The dark eyes of the wyrm-become-man glinted with resolve. 

“A ritual,” he murmured. “A sacrament, ancient and sacred.”

❅ ☾ ✧ ☽ ❅

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed anything in particular, have a prompt for me to explore, or otherwise wish to comment, please do! I'm very friendly and I thrive on feedback! ♡
> 
> Enabled by the the book club, where nothing hurts and everything is wholesomely debauched.


End file.
